


Once someone’s brother, once someone’s son

by AnyaMaia



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Brotherhood, Canonical Character Death, Other, POV First Person, Protection, Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-23
Updated: 2012-11-23
Packaged: 2017-11-19 08:37:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,937
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/571320
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AnyaMaia/pseuds/AnyaMaia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is it then. The end. I don’t want to watch and yet I am unable to look away. He deserves my attention. It’s the least I can do to bear witness, no matter how uncomfortable it makes me.  I pray for him as I watch. Please god, please let him die. As the agony stretches on into eternity; I pray for him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Captives

**Author's Note:**

> Ok so this little piece is quite dark… It already exists out there in cyberspace courtesy of fanfiction.net but apparently I wanted to share the despair here too!  
> I feel the need to mention that I actually love all these characters and don’t plan to do bad things to them – it just happens!  
> To reinforce my warnings this is not a happy tale but to me it, when writing it, its value was more in its explanation of John’s view of his world and in exploring a brotherly relationship… I hope you ‘enjoy’ it or at least manage to take from it something of those threads.  
> Comments/reviews would be welcomed and appreciated.

 

This is it then. The end. Our adventures couldn’t last forever. The dangers we put ourselves in, time after time, over and over. Heck, we’d been close before. Almost. A dozen times almost. But this time it seemed like the obstacles between us and our survival were insurmountable. Even Sherlock's quick, agile brain didn’t have an out. It’s not even a we-go-we-take-you-with-us situation. Not like the pool. Here there was nothing; nowhere to run, nowhere to hide.

  
We’re chained to steel chairs, bolted to the floor. They have weapons. They have numbers. Even if the shackles and chains melted away we would still be outnumbered. 6 to 1. Not good odds. Not with weapons trained on us. But the steel constricting my chest, binding my arms, ensnaring my legs isn’t going to melt away. So the odds really don’t matter. Not at all.

  
We’re going to die here; here in this barren, dark warehouse.

  
They wanted him. Holmes. Sherlock. They left a trail and they knew he would follow. Me? As usual I was right there with him, running alongside. It was my job to protect him really. That’s what I’m here for. To look after that beautiful brain, to keep the ‘transport’ safe, happy, nourished. I’ve let him down.

  
Although honestly, even if I hadn’t been caught unawares when the trap was sprung, even in a face to face open confrontation, even with my browning fully loaded and drawn, even with my army training… even with all of that it’s unlikely I could have taken down twelve highly trained armed men. So perhaps it’s not worth worrying about. Perhaps it’s not worth feeling the despair. It will be over soon after all.

  
They want Sherlock Holmes and we come together, him and me, like two halves of a whole. So they’ll kill me too. Soon. And then it won’t really matter. It won’t really matter at all.

  
I don’t really understand the case, this puzzle we’ve been unravelling. The problem that has led us here, to this point. I know the basics I guess but the deductions, the decryption of the clues, the act of solving is Sherlock's department. He always fills me in on the details later, after the case is wrapped up, after all’s said and done. I’m just along for the ride – or, well, the high I guess… The buzz. The danger. It keeps me together, keeps my broken pieces stuck up next to each other in the shape of a human being. Sherlock did that. He knew, he saw, he deduced. He put me back together again like one of his puzzles. He keeps me this way. I owe him. I owe him my life. Literally. So it’s a shame I’ve failed to protect his this time.

  
Mycroft brought us this particular enigma. Sherlock and Mycroft, well, they don’t exactly always see eye to eye. In fact they usually don’t. Although sometimes I think they antagonise each other just to annoy us mere mortals. This time Sherlock did his usual ‘not interested’ dramatics until I convinced him to take the case. To be honest I just couldn’t stand to wait out his ‘bored’ phase any longer, to wait for Lestrade to find something new, to wait for some poor innocent to be butchered. So I convinced him. Maybe I shouldn’t have. Then again maybe it wasn’t really me at all.

  
Something in Sherlock's eyes when he looked over the case file. Something undefinable, something new. I know those eyes. I can read them. It’s just one of the skills you need to master to live with him. Every look has meaning – and it’s usually something very different from what it first appears to be. I profess myself to be somewhat of an expert. I can read into the layers of meaning in those grey-blue depths and tell you something about his thoughts, about his feelings – because he does feel, no doubt about that – even if his face is that stoic and unfathomable mask. I can read him, in that sense, exceptionally well.

  
In fact, I often think the only person who can read his eyes more accurately than me is his brother. Is Mycroft. But then Mycroft can read so much else besides. Just like Sherlock. So it came as a surprise to me, when Mycroft handed him the file; that flash. That flash of something new and undefinable. It was fleeting and I couldn’t tell what it meant. I would need to see it again and compare the contexts because I’m not as quick as Sherlock. Yes, I do understand those expressive eyes now but I won’t lie – it took me a while.

  
Mycroft would have known I’m sure of it. But Mycroft wasn’t looking at his eyes; Mycroft was speaking to Mrs Hudson. His brother missed the whole thing. But maybe, just maybe, whatever that look was it meant that Sherlock would have taken the case anyway. Maybe because of whatever he saw. Maybe not because of me. Maybe.

  
Nonetheless, I suppose it doesn’t really matter now. It doesn’t really matter why he took the case. Or even why he has to die. I truly don’t understand. But I do know it has something to do with Mycroft. I know that the two deaths we looked into were perpetrated by these people. The ones who have beat and bound us. And I know there’s a link to his brother. Not in a sinister ‘Mycroft, the British government, ordered it’ kind of a way. In more of a ‘Mycroft is unaware but somehow he’s involved in this beyond being the one to pass us the case file’ kind of way. And that’s really all I know.

  
That’s all Lestrade knows too. I can’t help but wonder if either of them will solve it, this case, when they find our bodies. Lord knows, Lestrade will try, but his brain is like mine. Well better than mine probably – he is a detective after all – but compared to Sherlock his brain is slow and fuzzy. He won’t mind me thinking of him like that, he knows it’s true.

  
Mycroft then? His brain is the only real rival to his brothers. In fact sometimes I wonder if he isn’t slightly more intelligent – not that I would ever bring it up around either of them – but perhaps it’s just that his brain is wired differently, it focuses on different things. Things like running a government and international relations. Stuff that Sherlock would find dull. Frankly, the idea of Mycroft doing his own leg work to look into the murders, our murders, is rather ludicrous. But surely for Sherlock… for his brother… yes, for his little brother he’d do it. And if we found them so will he. And they will be made to pay for what’s about to happen here. That’s a small comfort at least. That my killers will, if not be brought to justice, be served Mycroft's personal brand of punishment. It doesn’t make it ok, but it makes it slightly better.

  
I look over to Sherlock, he’s off inside his head, he’s trying to think us out of this. I know that if we were in our living room at 221b he’d be sat with his hands steepled, delicately resting against his chin. It’s his thinking pose; for all those difficult problems. And he’d likely be abusing the nicotine patches again. Idly I wonder if this would be classed as a three patch problem? Or maybe a six? The thought makes me snort in laughter. He doesn’t flinch, doesn’t look up. He’s in deep.

  
Our captors are mostly standing in a huddle in the middle distance. One, the one in charge, is on the phone. Presumably to whoever orchestrated this. Eight of them face us, their weapons trained lest we somehow manage to break through our steel bindings and make a bid for freedom. I know that the others are out there somewhere in the shadowy recesses; watching, waiting. Protecting the perimeter.

  
The man on the phone is moving now, flanked by his team, walking towards us. I can hear his conversation. He’s checking orders, ensuring he gets it right. Being a good little soldier. Holmes has to suffer but the other one – that’s me – I have to die but no reason to prolong things. In short I’m catching a quick connection out of here. I don’t know what to make of that. Happy I guess. I’ve been through torture before and it’s not and experience I’m keen to relive. Although I doubt these thugs could hold a candle to the agonisingly drawn out methods employed by the Afghani army. This isn’t about extracting information though; it’s about inflicting pain for pains sake. So the ‘torture’ will be different. And any imbecile can inflict pain.

  
I glance at Sherlock. He doesn’t look up. Happy? God, I just can’t reconcile that term with my own death. Pleased? Relieved? Thankful? They just won’t fit. No matter anyway, I won’t have much longer to worry about it. And Sherlock, god, Sherlock what are they going to do to him? I want so desperately to protect him, to do something to stop them. But I can’t. I’m tethered. I'm restrained. I'm gagged. I feel impotent. There’s nothing I can do.

  
I look at him again and I know he’s heard their conversation. Even if he’s still deep in thought, even if he’s in a locked safe-room hidden deep within his mind palace. I know he’s been keeping an ear trained on proceedings. I know he knows what their plans are. Just like I know he’s aware of everything I’ve been thinking. I know he’s followed my thoughts as easily as he followed my rant about milk earlier today. Probably even easier. It’s his uncanny mind reading thing. Skill. Thing.

  
Look at me Sherlock. I see your eye twitch. Look at me. Please. He looks up for the first time in 10 minutes, the sharp intelligence of his sea-foam eyes locked directly onto mine. _I’m sorry._ I know he understands and I see, I read the response in those grey-green depths.

  
 _Don’t be such an idiot John, this is hardly your fault._ It’s like I can hear him saying it in my mind. Sharp and to the point, infuriated, and just so… Sherlock. I’m grinning and I know my laughter is reflected in my eyes. It’s a laughter at the way of things, of me and him, of our dynamic. It’s a grin that encompasses our comradery, our brotherhood. It’s all I have left to give him. It’s my way of telling him I knew he'd say that and that no matter what I’m glad of our time together. I’m glad I met him.

  
For a moment his quick eyes search mine and then they mirror my sentiment. It’s much more subtle but I see it there. He’s sorry too, he didn’t want us to end up this way but he can’t see a way around it. He can’t think us out of this mess. And he shares his thoughts with me through his eyes, that silent mirth at the way of things. At our fraternity, at our brotherhood.

  
 _We’re ok then?_ I send the message across. I need to know, to be sure; it’s important.

  
No hesitation this time. _Yes John, we’re ok. Everything’s going to be ok._

  
We both know it isn’t, not in the literal way of things. But at the same time it is. It’s ok because we say it is. Nothing else really matters.

  
I hear the beep as the team leader cuts off the call. With a last shared look we turn as one to look at him; me and Sherlock, Sherlock and I. He’s standing right in front of us now and feels the need to reiterate the conversation he’s just had. I suppose it’s kind of courteous, sort of… him making sure we both know how this will play out. Making sure we’re not left in the dark. Is it courteous? Or is it so that we’ll suffer in the knowledge of what’s to come? Well it’s not really as if we’ll have too much time to dwell. This is it. The end.

  
Sherlock goes first, that’s what he tells us. It means I have to watch. That’s my torture. Watching whilst they beat him to death. I feel sick. I don’t know what to do. There’s nothing I can do. One of the lackeys is walking forwards with the keys to the chains. Walking towards Sherlock. Suddenly it’s not ok anymore. No matter what we said, no matter what we agreed. This is not ok. This will never be ok.

  
At least I won’t have to bear the images long. I get a bullet to the brain. It’s a small comfort knowing that the images, the sounds, the… everything will be obliterated by that bullet. It will take my existence and my memories of his death. Everything will be annihilated. The neurones holding the information will quite literally be destroyed by the path of burning metal as it rips through my skull. I know from experience I’ll be gone before I even register the sound of the shot. I’ve seen it happen first hand. It’s a blessing I guess. Blessing. Perhaps that’s the word I was searching for earlier. Blessing.

  
There’s no blessing for Sherlock though. They have orders to drag it out for as long as possible. Oh god, Sherlock. The man with the keys is by his chair now. I can’t help it – I’m thrashing, fighting against my bindings. It’s useless. I know it is but it’s all I have. I can’t just do nothing.

  
He’s looking straight ahead now. I know he won’t look at me again. We’ve said all we need to say. He doesn’t look scared. He looks young though, so young… too young.

  
Suddenly, unprompted, thoughts of Peter Pan race across my mind. I remember watching the Disney version with my girlfriend’s kid when I was on leave. The image of that quick witted, sharp little lost boy fills my mind. The parallels with Sherlock suddenly floor me. Careless, brave, sharp as a tack, outwitting the bad guys at every turn, adventures and expeditions, never quite able to grow up and merge into the ‘real world’… it all fit’s, all of it.

  
I don’t know the ins and outs of his childhood but I do know that his parents weren’t exactly there for him either. More parallels. And Mycroft? Well whatever Sherlock holds him accountable for, Mycroft was a child himself. Suddenly my eyes fill with unshed tears for this little lost boy. This little lost soul. But people do love him. He was rescued, just like Peter. The thought of Lestrade dressed as Tinkerbelle briefly flit’s through my mind and takes with it some of the stinging pain. As the key bearer kneels by his chair I find I can’t keep my eyes away from his face. Passive, restful, calm. So unlike his brain.

  
Then the memory flows unbidden through my mind. Peter Pan seemingly outwitted, about to die, bravely telling Captain Hook that “to die would be an awfully big adventure.” And suddenly the tears are flowing down my face. I sag against my restraints and I let them come as I listen to the metallic clicks of the locks being undone.

 


	2. Loss

 

I jump when I hear his voice. I’m so focussed on Sherlock and then it’s there ringing out clear, cool, calm. Loud in the empty space of the warehouse. The voice of a man unaccustomed to hiding in the shadows, the voice of a man with power and connections, the voice of the British government. Mycroft.

“Gentlemen, you seem to be having some trouble. Perhaps I can be of assistance?” Instinctually I understand the question isn’t meant for us; Sherlock and I. It’s aimed at them, our captors.

They react swiftly, weapons refocusing, fixing on Mycroft as he strolls casually out of the shadows. As always clutching his trusty umbrella. Relief and hope flood through me simultaneously. If Mycroft is here then help can’t be far behind. We’re safe. Sherlock is safe. Mycroft would never see any harm come to his brother. Mycroft would never forgive himself if Sherlock died on his assignment.

Unfortunately the same thought has occurred to our imprisoners. In a rush of movement they have him, forced to the floor, pinned to the concrete. He doesn’t even try to evade them. They pull him upright – dragging his arm up his back in a way that I know from experience will concurrently constrain him and cause him pain. Ultimately with enough pressure it would break his arm. The leader starts asking him questions, forcing his immobilised arm higher than is possibly comfortable for a man of Mycroft's age, and the expression on his usually unfathomable face speaks volumes about the level of pain.

Mycroft’s talking now; telling them that he came alone. That he’s here for a reason. Telling them that he’s here to accept the ‘punishment’. That he’s here to take the place of his brother. It was him they really wanted after all, wasn’t it? The leader is nodding now. Yes. Yes he was who they wanted and when they couldn’t get to him they decided to go through his younger brother. As punishment. As a warning against future… transgressions. I look to Sherlock and he is watching and listening intently. He isn’t paying any attention to me but his face, for once, is somewhat unguarded.

Oh. There.

And suddenly I can tell, I can just tell. That’s what we’re doing here. That’s what the look was, the new indecipherable glint when Sherlock had been deciding whether or not to take the case. He had known. From the moment he first saw the case file he had known they were after Mycroft. And Mycroft hadn’t. And we are here, in this warehouse, chained and gagged because Sherlock wanted to stop these people. Stop them from getting to his brother. Oh.

I look back over to Mycroft and zone back into the conversation - if you can call it that. Mycroft is assuring them yet again that he has come alone. That they don’t have to kill us all outright. They finally seem to be buying it. I study him looking for the signs, the signs he is lying. The signs only someone like me, so used to the Holmes ways, would be able to see. I see nothing. But surely he is lying. Surely he wouldn’t have broken in here; alone, unarmed, unprotected. Surely he wouldn’t have done anything so rash, so stupid. Surely. He looks up from his position on the hard-packed floor, looks up at Sherlock. And I know. Yes. Yes he would. He would do it for Sherlock. For Sherlock his older brother would do whatever it took to keep him safe. Damn.

Mycroft is explaining now. Explaining his ‘plan’. He is who they wanted and he will give himself over freely, without a struggle, but Sherlock and I must go free. We escape unscathed. The head of the group seems to like the idea. He has a glint in his eye which speaks of something personal. He will enjoy beating Mycroft – I know it suddenly and with a sickening clarity – he will enjoy it. Sherlock would have just been a job, but Mycroft… he wants to cause him pain, wants to make him suffer. He picks up his mobile to check the new plan with the powers that be.

This can’t actually be happening. But it is. It’s playing out right in front of me like some sort of sickening soap storyline. I can barely believe it. I suppose that’s because a large part of me just doesn’t want to. How can we really be here? Me and Sherlock and Mycroft. Waiting for some psycho to tell his trained monkeys which of us lives and which of us has to die. How can Mycroft be allowed to be here, the British government, lying on the floor offering up his life for his brothers? For mine? It isn’t right. None of this is right.

The beep of disconnection rings out loud and cutting. The decision is made. Mycroft's ‘offer’ has been accepted. They are pulling him to his feet.

“Good, now perhaps you would be so kind” he indicates towards Sherlock with his head “as to let me have a few last words with my brother?” Calm. Collected. Like he’s ordering a cup of tea or telling his driver what time to return and collect him. Not like he’s just signed his life away. Not like he’s about to die.

They drag him over and roughly rip off Sherlock's gag.

“Mycroft”

“Sherlock” A small smile settles on his face as he addresses his brother. Oh god, how on earth can he be smiling?

“Mycroft!” Sherlock's voice usually so stoic, so controlled betrays him. There’s anger there, real and raw, but there’s so much more. There’s fear and panic and the precursor to pain. “You cannot do this!” he hisses the words “you won’t do this!”

“Sherlock, please, let’s not make this exchange undignified” so typically Mycroft. Dignified? What on earth about this is dignified? His ‘punishment’, his death here won’t be dignified. I look away from his controlled, calm exterior. Always the government official. I suddenly can’t stand to see it.

“I could have handled it!” The fear building in Sherlock's voice drags my eyes back to the twisted scene playing out before me. The fear not for himself, not for me. For Mycroft, for his big brother, for his archenemy.

Mycroft gives Sherlock a surprisingly open look. It speaks of deeper meanings and shared childhoods. “I'm your big brother Sherlock, I’m supposed to look after you not the other way around.”

Because that’s what we’d been doing. Me unknowingly, Sherlock purposefully. It didn’t matter that I hadn’t known, not a jot, I would’ve done it anyway. And Sherlock knew that. That was a part of what made it ok; the situation we found ourselves in. I would have done it anyway. And Sherlock, no matter how much he protested the facts, no matter how he stated or showed his hostility, his outright distain… Sherlock had risked his life for his brothers. Had been willing to die for Mycroft.

Then I saw it in Mycroft’s eyes as he looked at Sherlock. The reason. They had something more than we were seeing here. They had something over him which meant he couldn’t simply send in all the kings horses and all the kings men. Mycroft hadn’t seen a way out of this. He hadn’t seen a way for us to get out; a way forwards in which one or both of us didn’t end up hurt or dead. And to him Sherlock being injured was an unacceptable risk. This was the only way he knew he could get Sherlock out alive.

The brief conversation is over. They roughly drag Mycroft away and one of the jackbooted thugs re-gags Sherlock.

And then it starts. I don’t want to watch and yet I’m unable to look away. The way his body jerks and twists with each strike. I shut my eyes, but I can still hear it. Finally I turn to him, to Sherlock. He’s watching everything. His quick, intelligent eyes tracking every blow. He could probably tell exactly what was coming. He'd probably deduced it when it was meant for him. He likely knew exactly how this was going to play out; from first blow to last. Hell, Mycroft undoubtedly knew too. It sickened me to think that he knew how this would end, that he'd deduced his own death.

Sherlock shouldn’t be watching this. Shouldn’t be watching his brother suffer like this. No matter if he had already deduced the blows, whether or not he knew the conclusion… I try to communicate as much to him. I will him to look away. But he isn’t paying me any attention, all of his focus is for his brother now. I can’t help but turn back to it.

Mycroft had started quietly, taking his punishment in silence. The only sounds flesh hitting flesh, booted feet against a body, the dull thwack of metal into muscle. The odd crack of bone. Now though, they are getting more inventive. Mycroft's body is already so abused. Fractured and bloodied. Now he can’t hold back the sounds of his agony. Now he can’t help but make noise. Slipping between the sounds of distress are his ragged, wet breaths. They’ve already broken his nose and his jaw and most of his ribs. It’s hard to be sure because of the crimson tide pouring from his nose but there seems to be more blood bubbling on his lips with each desperate breath. I suspect his ribs have punctured a lung.

I know looking at him now that I won’t look away again. Even as they slowly break each finger on his left hand and he writhes in agony. Even as the leader takes out a switch blade. I know I won’t look away again. Mycroft deserves my attention. It’s the least I can do to bear witness, no matter how uncomfortable it makes me.

I pray for him as I watch. For the second time in my life I plead with the deity I rarely acknowledge. _Please god, please let him die. Let this be over. For him and for me and for Sherlock. Please god, let him die._ As they assault his body and the agony stretches on into eternity; I pray for him.

I wonder if Mycroft has escaped it all now. He's fallen quiet again although it’s clear he is still conscious. I wonder if he’s safe inside his mind. If he has gone into his mind palace and hidden behind a locked door. I hope as much. I cling to that hope; so that in some small way this won’t be as bad as it looks.

Soon, I hope he will lose consciousness. And that will be a blessing for all of us. It will make it so much easier to bear, knowing he’s no longer feeling anything. It takes longer than I want it to. Maybe Mycroft has been tortured before or perhaps he has just been trained to resist, to persevere, to survive. But it does happen eventually. He slips from consciousness. And the brutalisation continues.

Then finally he slips away from life. I can tell the moment it happens. It’s a strange skill I carry. Being so connected to life and death, being so close to those hovering in the no mans land in between, you learn to feel it. It becomes instinctive. So I know the second it happens. And still the beating continues. The desecration of his body.

Finally they stop. They barely spare a glance at us. They just leave. Leave us there staring at the broken body that was once the British government. That was once an archenemy.

That was once someone’s brother, once someone’s son.

 

 


	3. Love

 

I don’t know how long we sit and wait after they leave. It feels like eons. It could be mere seconds. We sit and we wait to be rescued, we wait for help to come. Help that will, no matter how quickly it arrives, come too late for Mycroft.

Still bound and gagged we can’t speak and I doubt we would anyway. I don’t know what I would say to him. I don’t know how to make this ok.

Sherlock's eyes, tears unshed, are still fixed, as they had been from the moment our kidnappers began, on Mycroft's prone form. He doesn’t seem to see the rust coloured pool of his brother’s lifeblood or the uncomfortable angle at which he has been left; shattered and strung out on the cold concrete. He doesn’t look away, not once, not for a second. I’m not even sure he’s blinking. I don’t even think he could read me anymore. He’s in a world of his own; just him and his brother.

When help eventually comes it’s in the form of Lestrade and his team. Rushing into the warehouse accompanied by an armed response unit, weapons drawn. Weapons that are of no use now. No use at all. The damage is done. Lestrades eyes take in the gore covered form as he runs towards us.

“John, Sherlock” he pulls up short and yells to his supporting team. They are going to need bolt cutters in the absence of keys. Moving swiftly forward he ungags Sherlock first.

“Sherlock, you ok?” No answer. He doesn’t even blink. His eyes just remain ever focused on the body, on Mycroft. “Sherlock? Sherlock!”

Lestrades worried eyes flick to mine as Donovan finally removes my gag. “John?” he steps towards me, speaking quickly and quietly under his breath “was that… is that…”

“Mycroft” I nod as I answer equally unobtrusively. “They…” I stumble over the words, disgusted “they made us… made him watch…” I trail off. It’s enough. Lestrade can fill in the rest of the information from the state of the body. Mycroft's body. I don’t need to go into details.

He looks ill. I nod again. It’s not right, we both know it. His eyes flicker meaningfully towards Sherlock. It’s my turn to try.

“Sherlock?” I say his name softly into the now busy air that surrounds us. I know he can hear me – physically at least – the man has the ears of a cat. But mentally? He’s shut down, shut off. In a bubble in his mind; with Mycroft. With his brother.

“Sherlock?” I try again. He doesn’t show any sign that he even knows that I’m here. Even with my specially trained eye I see nothing. We watch him for a moment, Lestrade and I. Staring, frozen, poised on his seat as though at any moment someone will be serving afternoon tea. The memory floods back – that afternoon at the palace… ‘I’ll be mother’, Mycroft pouring for us all. It’s like a jagged knife to my gut. I glance back towards him on the warehouse floor. I think I might be sick.

I close my eyes to compose myself, just for a moment, and when I open them I return my gaze to Sherlock. Still frozen, face a blank slate, unreadable, lighting up red and blue, red and blue as the lights on the incident response cars outside the window alternate. He doesn’t notice. He doesn’t care.

“God, will he be alright?” Lestrade turns to face me again, voice hushed. I shake my head at him slowly in a mute gesture. I don’t know. I can’t imagine how he will be. I'm not alright and I wasn’t Mycroft's brother.

There’s a team approaching Mycroft's body now. Andersons here – he looks over in our direction but doesn’t bother giving us more than a cursory glance. He doesn’t know who Mycroft is. To him I suppose it just looks like we’ve gotten ourselves in another sticky situation and someones ended up dead. The forensics team start to slowly move around the body; photographing, cataloguing. I glance back to Sherlock, still staring immobile, I wonder if he’s actually seeing any of them. If he actually sees Anderson and his team at all.

Lestrade gives a sigh of relief. A police officer is approaching, winding his way towards us with a pair of bolt cutters and followed by an ambulance crew with full kit. Orange blankets and all. At some small signal from Lestrade he moves to my side first.

“No” my voice is rough, broken. I nod to my left “him first.” The officer moves to Sherlock and begins to cut away the binding chains. It’s a slow process. It seems to take forever. Finally with a last keening groan of metal on metal the chain falls away. We all watch him, watch his reaction. And for a moment he does nothing; sitting statuesque. Then as Lestrade opens his mouth, to no doubt attempt to raise him once more, he stands abruptly. And with that quick feline movement he strides towards his brother.

“Sherlock!” My cry falls on deaf ears. Lestrade tries to block his path and gets roughly shoved aside. The bolt cutter wielding copper tries to get a grip on him but he’s too slow. Eyes locked on his target, looking like a wrathful angel he lets nothing stand in his way.

He shouldn’t see him up close. It’s not ok. It’s… I struggle against my restraints in vain. God.

“Sherlock!” Lestrade’s cry alerts Anderson to the man bearing down on him. He lowers his clipboard and turns from the tech he’s talking to “Where do you think you’re going freak?” He steps into Sherlock's path just as Lestrade shouts a warning.

“Anderson, don’t!” Too late. This time Sherlock doesn’t hold back. As Anderson reaches for him he snarls and throws him bodily out of the way. His eyes never leave Mycroft. Anderson hit’s the floor several metres away with a cry. As Sherlock arrives at his brother’s side the other techs wisely back away.

The man with the bolt cutters is back, clipping through my restraints as rapidly as possible. My eyes are glued to Sherlock though. As are everyone else’s – a stillness has fallen over the scene, all of us waiting to see what comes next.

Sherlock drops to his knees. He leans forward over his brothers bloody and broken body, hesitates for a moment, then takes his left hand in both of his own.

“Mycroft?” His voice is clear in the preternatural quiet that has descended. He waits like he expects an answer. My blood runs cold in my veins. I’m fighting the urge to vomit again as I watch this beautiful man try to communicate with the dead. I feel the tears spill unbidden down my face. I don’t care. I’m crying for Sherlock, for Mycroft… for myself.

“Mycroft… My?” A nickname. The fondness in his voice. He suddenly sounds so very young. My heart breaks for him, the pain tangible and fierce in my chest.

“My?” He’s leaning forward and, oh god, he’s shaking his shoulder. So gently. So reverently. I feel like I’m seeing him as the child he once was. It’s harrowing. I can barely breathe through the hurt.

I hear Lestrade make a quiet noise of sympathy and pity. The bolt cutter keeps working. No one is moving or breathing. We are all ensnared in this quiet torture.

“My…” he stills for a moment, seemingly confused, before his hand moves back to Mycroft's. “It’s ok My. You can wake up now.” It’s clear from the way Sherlock speaks that he expects his words to have some effect. As if those five words can weave some magic which will wake his brother from the dead.

“My, please My…” He’s pleading now. Pleading. Sherlock Holmes. Pleading for his brother’s life. This beautiful, arrogant man broken and begging, kneeling on the floor in a pool of his brother’s blood. Soaking in crimson. Skin pale as the death mask his sibling wears.  

Pleading and begging. That’s what he’s using to try to raise his brother. That’s what he’s fallen back on. Because that’s all he has left.

Finally I feel the weight of the chains fall free. I need to do something, I need to help him. But I’m not sure how. I stand and Lestrade notices my freedom. We share a glance - each of us pouring our discomfort into that fleeting link, both of us acknowledging that we don’t know what to do. That we don’t know how to help our friend. So vulnerable, so lost. Kneeling over his only kin, telling him it’s ok to wake up. Telling him its safe.

I turn back to him now, Sherlock, still intently focused on his big brother. I’m out of my depth, I don’t know how to approach this. Not with him, not with Sherlock. Deciding to do the only thing I can think of I walk up to him slowly, awkwardly, muscles aching with cramp. I’m limping. Broken. But not as broken as Sherlock. Not as broken as his brother. I’m aware of the eyes, the eyes of the room trained on me. All too quickly I reach his shoulder. I move so that I’m in his line of sight.

“Sherlock?” I speak his name calmly, quietly. Like I was trained to do. Like I’m speaking to an armed, injured and cornered soldier. And when he doesn’t respond I slowly reach out and touch his shoulder. He stills and I wonder if I’m about to meet with Anderson’s fate or worse. I wonder if he’ll hit me. I almost want him to. I want the sting. I want the ache inside reflected on my skin. More than that I want to give him an outlet. I’ll be his punch bag if it will help. Help him cope, help him deal with this, help him heal. I’m willing him to strike out; I know that it will help me as well.

But he doesn’t. He freezes and stops talking. And then for the first time since this began he looks away from his big brother and he looks directly into my eyes. For innumerable seconds he merely stares at me and I can’t read anything at all in those stormy depths.

Then in a low voice he speaks. The words are meant for me alone but in the silence the whole world can hear him.

“Why won’t he wake up John?”

I drop to my knees beside him as I feel the wave of loss and anguish flow through me. I feel the answer burning across the distance between us, his question answered in silence, answered by my eyes. After a moment I see a response flicker within the depths of his. What I see is a sorrow, a torment so all-consuming it’s more than flesh and blood can bear.

 

~

 

It takes me and Lestrade some time to move him, even after he realises the truth. He stills again, in suspended animation, disappearing inside his own head. Eventually, between us, we manage to bundle him into a waiting ambulance. Once inside Sherlock sits immobile wrapped in his garish blanket.

This time no one tries to take photos of him.

I ride with him. Lestrade, after entrusting the crime scene to an openly weeping Sally Donovan, rides in a car behind us. We go to Barts. And Sherlock doesn’t say another word. He lets the ambulance crew tend to him; taking readings, writing on charts. He doesn’t say or do anything. He won’t respond. Not even to me.

He’s lost inside his mind. I hope he can find his way back to me, back to life. But I’m not sure he will want to.

When we arrive I demand that we are kept together – Lestrade even wades in and insists on our behalf. But the hospital staff are immune to our needs. We’re separated immediately. This would never normally happen. Of course not. Normally Mycroft ensures we stay together. Against all the rules, the regulations, the law. Mycroft. Always Mycroft.

When Lestrade offers to stay with Sherlock I immediately feel a rush of gratitude towards him. They are taken away and I surrender myself to the hands of doctors and nurses. They flutter around me but I can’t say I really pay much attention. My heart, and my mind, are still with Sherlock. Some part of me replaying the horrific events of the afternoon; over and over and over.

When a nurse comes to give me pain relief I don’t protest. I’m feeling my ailments. Not the numb, dull ache of the few minor scratches and scrapes I’ve acquired. They’re inconsequential, they really are. No, not them. Though I am in pain. Seething, barbed and vicious. It’s ripping me apart from the inside. Not just for Sherlock, not only for his loss. There is the sharp stab of anger, an anger for Mycroft, at how he had suffered. And his agony ripples and spreads inside me. Adding to my own; my agony at having to watch another human being suffer like that, suffer and die.

Mycroft, for all his theatrics, for all his drama, for all the issues I had with him – Mycroft was my comrade in arms. Our duty was to protect, to nurture, to look after Sherlock. We stood together in solidarity on that. He was one of my team, one of my number, one of my own. And he was taken in the line of duty.

I feel the cold burn of the morphine as it travels up my arm. I watch as the nurse packs away the sharps and walks out of the room. I hope the drug will bring me solace. That it will bring an end to the pain, that it will douse the raging inferno that burns inside me.

I wait, but it fails.

I’m not sure how long it’s been since we arrived at Barts, how long since… But I see him. Lestrade. Frantic. He catches sight of me and I know before he even opens his mouth.

“Sherlock” he says clearly distressed. “I only took a moment, John. I swear. I needed to talk to my team. He’s gone… I… I don’t know…” and I can see that it’s the truth. And I can see why he’s so worried. Sherlock hadn’t ‘snapped out’ of his – state - yet. He hadn’t recovered himself. It was dangerous for him to be out there; alone, lost in his head.

Or worse still, for him to recover himself – just enough to do something stupid without anyone there to stop him. Something incredibly stupid like shooting up.

I nod to indicate that I understand, that he needn’t go on. There is no more time to play patient. Lestrade watches as I expertly remove my IV’s and the ECG pads. I leave A & E without a discharge - self or otherwise – and we start to search.

 

~

 

It isn’t the first place I look. In hindsight I really don’t know why it isn’t, perhaps I’ve had enough death for one day, but I try all the other places first. The labs, the research rooms, the classrooms, the computer suite, the roof… then… then finally the morgue. I know I’m in the right place as soon as I enter the corridor. Molly is there, sitting huddled on the floor, back against the wall. She’s crying.

“Molly?” She looks up; eyes red and puffy, cheeks tear and mascara stained. And I see it reflected in her face – so open, so raw – his suffering. “Molly, are you alright?”

He wouldn’t have hurt her, I am sure of that. But it is possible he scared her. She doesn’t speak for a moment, just nods. She struggles to compose herself enough to actually talk. It’s a state I sympathise with.

“It’s just… he… he’s in there… it’s…” she breaks off with a sob. I look at her for one long moment as I steel myself and then I turn and walk towards the morgue doors.

I look through the small pane of glass into the room beyond, and I feel the pain and anguish wash over me once more. I struggle to remain upright; supporting myself on the wall and the doorframe. “This… he just… this is what he did?” I direct the question over my shoulder at Molly.

I hear her struggle to her feet in the hallway behind me and twist to look at her. “Yes” she whispers eyes fixed on the linoleum.

I turn back to the small window and my heart pulls, tight and tortured, in my chest.

Inside that room Mycroft's body lies on one of the cold metal gurneys. And Sherlock… Sherlock, sleeves rolled to the elbow, eyes shut and fingers templed beneath his chin lies with him.

Bodies pressed together, side by side, on the dully glinting steel. His Belstaff coat laid over Mycroft's body, covering him from feet to chest. Woollen garment carefully tucked in on the left side, the side facing the cold, harsh room, and Sherlock on his right snug against him. Keeping him safe. Keeping him warm. Protecting him the only way he knows how.

“Molly” my voice is so rough with emotion I barely recognise it “are you about finished here for the night?” I have no idea what time it is but it’s dark outside the hospital windows.

“Yes, I was just… I mean… I… I just need to put… to move Mycroft to…”

I nod, I understand. I don’t think that’s going to happen anytime soon. “It’s alright. I’ll look after them now; both of them. You go home.”

She pauses for a second as if unsure and then, with a last look trained on the morgue door, she turns and walks away. I hear the double doors at the end of the corridor open and Lestrades voice addressing Molly in hushed tones. I don’t stop to explain. I leave that to her. I have things to take care of.

With a deep breath I push open the door and enter the room in front of me. I walk over to the chair by the desk and sit down. I meant what I said to Molly. I will look after them both; Sherlock and Mycroft. I will keep this vigil with my friend, for his brother. For the man who sacrificed everything he had, for the man who protected us until the very end.

We will keep this vigil; Sherlock and I. And I will stand guard over them whilst they are both so vulnerable.

And so I sit and I watch and I wait. At some point during the darkness of the night, at some unseen cue, Sherlock breaks his characteristic pose. His eyes stay shut as his left hand moves down and takes hold of Mycroft's right. And he lies there clasping his brother’s hand as the night stretches on in silence. And I stand sentinel.

Sherlock opens his eyes sometime after the dawn breaks and light creeps back into the world. For a time he simply lies, holding onto his kin and staring upwards. I do nothing. Finally he rises from the hard, unforgiving metal. He doesn’t look at me, instead he turns to his brother.

I observe as he gently lays Mycroft's hand at his side. He adjusts his coat, ever so gently tucking it around the still form. For a few moments he simply gazes down at him. His big brother. Then slowly he leans in, lips to Mycroft's ear and he whispers to him softly.

The words I catch are in a language I don’t understand. Though it’s the tone, the cadence of the words, that carries to me more than the words themselves. And that cadence weaves a picture of a long forgotten story, a barely remembered game. It speaks of childhood and brotherhood and love. Whatever Sherlock whispers it sounds fitting. It sounds beautiful.

Tears fall unashamedly from my eyes as I watch him. So gentle now. And Mycroft so peaceful at last, his agonies over, his battle ended.

He tenderly reaches up and brushes the hair from Mycroft’s brow. Then ever so carefully he presses cupids-bow lips to his brother’s skin. Just between his eyes. An angel kiss.

“Goodnight My” he lets the words out on the ghost of a breath.

Then he turns and walks out of the darkness and into the dawn, entrusting his brother to the silence.

 


End file.
